We're Not at Home to the Broke of Heart

I'm with the Light Brigade, she quipped, yesterday, Monday, with nary on the contrary, as if to say she was light on lumps. Tuesday followed, like all good Tuesdays do, and so did her grave train of thought: I'm on a top of the world, she stilted, beckoning belief, nose in chief. I am, persisted she, I am indeed — and it's nought not oft I say Indeed, 'tis it? Nought not no, I replied, calmly and rudely stealing an obvious glance at the time on my wrist.

The following Wednesday, we went for Melb's poisons of choice, at the old, bleak brew, we two. She ordered each tip-full, brought it to logic's conclusion and gravity's disarmament. And: I love you, I said, meaning each word but the last. Do you?, she tippled, cocking her chin for a laugh. I do, I continued, do you me? Do I who? Do I who? Forget it. I will. Applause. You, she began, seem different today. I snapped: I am different today. Why? I've on a different hat, to fool. To fool? You fool. That as may be, but ask a question— Quiet.

When Wednesday ceased, it seemed Thurs— Good morning, ever chipper I announced, for that was what it was — both senses. Is it? She turned her gaze to her Polish nails. Doesn't seem as though 'tis. Well, your seems apart, that is what it is, my loaf. I forced a stern look upon her. Did you get the newspaper? No. How could I have? Why don't you, then? I intend to. A snort this time. Any time soon? No, any time after I'm distinctly less pink, and washed. I have to do it myself do I? No. Yes I do. Yes you do, then.

What the fuck does I'm With The Light Brigade supposed to mean? Friday's response was merely an insular nod. Nothing? Yes, dear, nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. I fisted the wall. She peered, uncaring, behind her reading rims. Why that for? You won't tell me what you mean. Pah! You're the one who has to fix it. I know. I fingered the hole; this was going to take some fixing.